The Left Hand Of Darkness
by GinnyRules
Summary: His eyes met Granger's for the space of a heartbeat and he saw his own disgruntlement mirrored in her expression. They had become, for a few seconds, complicit. Draco ripped the parchment out of the confused Pansy's hand, crumpled it up, and threw it in his bag./Missing moments from the Hogwarts years. Sequel to Requirement; can be read on its own.


**A/N:** Hello ladies and (?)gents! So lovely to see you again. Guys, don't be angry with me for posting another story when I should be working on **The Phoenix or the Flame**. The last chapter is almost complete and will be posted soon as can be. But in the meantime, this was a fun sort of diversion for me. It can be read as a prequel to my other fic **Requirement**, or on its own, and it recounts some missing pieces from within the trio's and Draco's years at Hogwarts. All canon-compliant, more or less. The M rating is for safety, mostly (language and suggestive content), so proceed at your own risk, though it could have maybe passed as a strong T. In any case, enjoy! As always, I love to hear from you guys in the reviews, so come chat with me! Cheers...**  
**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything, nothing, not a thing, nada! Also, the title is taken from the novel of the same name by Ursula K. LeGuinn, in which there is a poem that goes "Light is the left hand of darkness..." I felt it was fitting. And obviously, I don't own that either.

**THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS**

In a sparse, quaint forest in the English countryside near the ocean, blood-curdling screams rent the night and fires crackled on the painted horizon, consuming all in their path. Frantic youths stumbled left and right over an unlit path as the magically erected tents surrounding them burst into flames. A tall boy with white-blond hair and a pointed face lolled casually in a copse of trees slightly removed from the disturbance.

Draco Malfoy narrowed his eyes with malicious glee as a group of men wearing dark masks began to approach his stretch of forest. The masked figure Draco recognized as his father bellowed an unintelligible incantation, and Draco guffawed as a Muggle family rose into the air, suspended upside down with their heads flopping violently from side to side.

Familiar voices drifted through the trees and Draco's spirits rose even higher.

"Tripped over a tree-root," one of them blundered, and as a cloud shifted away from the crescent moon the sprawled form of Ron Weasley appeared at his feet, flanked by a dishevelled Potter and Granger on either side.

"Well, with feet that size, hard not to," said Draco, smirking as the swotty bloody trio turned to face him in alarm.

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Weasley growled. What scintillating wit, Draco mused, what originality.

Now only a hundred yards away beyond the tress, the Muggle woman floating overhead swayed violently in mid-air and her nightdress fell over her face to reveal a revolting pair of oversized underpants. Draco watched her out of the corner of his eye, amused, and noted that the Death Eaters appeared to be drawing rapidly nearer. Granger, he reflected, would not come out the better from an encounter with them.

"Language, Weasley," Draco retorted, keeping his tone casual. "Hadn't you better be hurrying along now? You wouldn't like _her_ spotted, would you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Granger challenged.

Draco could honestly say that he considered stalling her, keeping them all there by picking a fight over their variously deplorable parentage. Yet somehow the thought of Granger being suspended helplessly fifty feet in the air, and possibly falling to Earth and cracking open her oversized head, caused him an odd twinge of discomfort.

What the hell? Draco mentally chastised himself for his inexplicably generous thoughts towards the Mudblood, and decided at once to attribute them to his desire not to see Granger's underpants flying through the sky. Nobody deserved such horror.

"Granger, they're after _Muggles_," he told her with relish, keeping an eye on the Death Eaters' approaching forms. "D'you want to be showing off your knickers in mid-air? Because if you do, hang around... They're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh." _Now get out of here._

"Hermione's a witch," Potter grunted.

Draco could barely contain a twitch of irritation as the idiots wasted time stating the obvious, unaware of the danger that loomed just behind them. Of course, he was aware that Granger was a witch, though Merlin only knew how such a perversion of nature had come to pass. The issue was her family, not her status as McGonagall's favorite pet, something which bleeding hearts like Potter could never seem to grasp. And in the meantime, the Death Eaters were advancing inexorably. Draco threw the dreaded "Mudblood" into his next retort just to see Weasley's face color, digging his hand into his pocket and tightening his fist around his wand so that he could be ready to cause a distraction if the bloody dolts refused to leave for much longer. Potter would wet himself with excitement if he heard a disturbance in the distance and thought there might be an opportunity to rescue someone in distress. If worse came to worse Draco would certainly not stand between his own father and Granger. Nevertheless...

He had practically lost track of the back-and-forth between himself and Weasley the Witless Wonder when Potter interrupted his thoughts.

"Wher're _your_ parents?" Potter asked, sounding bad-tempered. "Out there wearing masks, are they?"

_Two for two, Potter._

Draco turned to face him, taking his time, allowing the truth to etch itself plainly on his face. He wanted Potter to _know_ they had one over on him, this time.

"Well... if they were, I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I Potter?"

"Oh come on," said Granger, throwing Draco a look of utmost contempt and finally, _finally_ leading her two lackeys away. Draco could not deny that a wave of relief swept over him as soon as she began to retreat.

"Keep that big, bushy head down, Granger," he called as she, Potter and Weasley vanished into the darkness of the forest. Then, shaking away the perplexing reflections her appearance had brought on, Draco turned with a smile to watch the Muggles flopping through the sky once more.

* * *

"Why don't you go and find Vicky, he'll be wondering where you are," said Ron, and Hermione saw red.

"_Don't call him Vicky!_" she shouted, and stalked away, eager to put as much distance as possible between herself and Ron. Far from being merely infuriated by his comments, it pained her to remember that Victor actually _had_ told her that she could call him Vicky just a few days ago.

The utter stupidity, the _insensitivity_ of Ron, to dare tell her that she was out of bounds when he had only asked to the Ball because he was completely out of preferable options. As if taking her would have been an utter joke! Hermione tore through the crowd, attempting in vain to calm herself, not really paying attention to where she was going. As a result she ended up near the rose garden outside the Entrance Hall, surrounded by fairy lights and giggling couples. The sound of an angry female voice floated towards her, and she followed it, momentarily diverted from her dark thoughts. She stopped short and hid behind a bush, however, when she saw who it was: Pansy Parkinson was sitting on a rosewood bench with Draco Malfoy, her voice rising plaintively above the surrounding whispers of the other couples.

At first Hermione thought that the pair of them were embracing and she turned to leave at once, disgusted. But something caught her eye, and she saw to her amazement that Parkinson was squirming, trying to get closer to Malfoy, and that he was actually pushing her away.

"Get out of it, Pansy," Malfoy snapped, sounding exasperated.

"What's wrong, Draco?" she whined, reaching out to stroke his hair, but Malfoy shrugged her off.

"I told you, I just don't feel like it today," he said, in a voice much more tired, much more human, than the drawl Hermione was used to.

"But the other day, when you asked me to come to the Ball with you, you were-"

"I said _drop it._"

Parkinson stopped struggling against his efforts to keep her at bay for a moment, and tried changing tack.

"Do you like my dress?" she asked, smoothing one of the ruffles on her chest and giving Malfoy a sly look from under her lashes. "Mother sent it to me. She had it tailored specially in France, not like the tacky frocks some of these other girls are wearing. Merlin, did you see Granger's _horrible_-"

"For fuck's sake, Pansy, do you ever _shut up_?" Draco burst out all of a sudden, and Pansy's eyes grew wide, filling with the bitter tears of wounded pride.

A small disturbance caused Hermione to turn around, and she saw Professors Snape and Karkaroff enter the garden and begin to move slowly in her direction. She cursed under her breath, but there was nothing for it; she would have to pass in front of Malfoy and Parkinson if she was to leave without interrupting Snape, something she heartily wished to avoid.

Clearing her throat loudly and striding forward as though she had merely been passing through, Hermione walked out into the open and cringed internally at Parkinson's scowl and narrowed eyes. She tried to keep her head up and her pace steady as she passed them, but could not help looking over her shoulder for a moment. Her eyes met Malfoy's briefly, and she saw more turmoil there than she had expected. It only lasted for a moment, and then he gave a humorless laugh and snaked his arm around Parkinson's shoulder, playing with a strand of her hair. Parkinson looked pleased, if a little bewildered, by this sudden change in her date's affections, and she threw a most unpleasant smirk in Hermione's direction.

"What are you staring at, Granger?" Parkinson jeered as Malfoy's hand fell onto her shoulder and he began rubbing circles against her skin. "Never seen what a proper dress looks like when it's worn by someone with actual breeding?"

Hermione scoffed. "Oh, is that a dress? For a moment I thought you'd somehow gotten a hold of my great aunt's drawing room curtains."

Malfoy's expression twitched for a second into one of savage amusement, but it passed too quickly to be certain of what he could be thinking, and Hermione levelled a look of disdain at the pair of Slytherins before turning once more to leave. She could have sworn, however, that as she walked away she heard Parkinson simper, "Now, where were we?" and Malfoy reply, "Oh shove off."

* * *

The first Arithmancy lesson of the year for OWL students was after lunch on Tuesday afternoon, at a time when most of Hermione's housemates were still outside enjoying the final burst of that year's autumn sunshine. Eager as always to read ahead, Hermione made her way to professor Vector's classroom alone and sat in the front row, burying herself in _Numerology Grammatica_ for the next fifteen minutes. She did not notice when a tall, pale figure entered the room and sat in the back row, lounging casually in his chair and watching her as he twirled his wand between his fingers.

"Stick your nose any closer to that book and you'll rub it raw, Granger," Malfoy drawled, and Hermione looked up, startled. For the last two years Gryffindor had always been paired with Ravenclaw for Arithmancy, and so she had not thought to check on her schedule whether the same would hold true this year. Surely they would not have changed the arrangement... But there sat Malfoy, smirking at her, and she groaned. Of course, it would have been foolish to expect Mafloy to take Divination or Muggle Studies, which left him with few other options. Instinctively Hermione turned to her right to roll her eyes in the direction of Harry or Ron, before remembering that neither of them took Arithmancy. She groaned.

"Very clever, Malfoy," Hermione mumbled, returning to her book.

"Been buried away in Mudblood land all summer, have you?" he persisted snidely. "Missed slobbering over all those books?"

Hermione ignored him, though she clutched the edge of the desk until her knuckles turned white. She just knew he was going to use this class, and their time together away from Harry and Ron, to make her pay for silencing Rita Skeeter the year before.

"_Or_, have you been closeted up at that Bulgarian doormat's house the last few months, slobbering all over _him_?"

_What?_

Hermione whipped around, forgetting her resolve to stay silent, but at the same moment Professor Vector walked in behind Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott, and she was forced to face the front of the room, breathing heavily through her nose. What on Earth had that been about? What did Malfoy care who she spent her summers with? Though she didn't care about Victor's fame, it was rather a feeble insult to accuse her of associating with a well-liked celebrity from Durmstrang. She was so puzzled by his meaning that she missed the first question Professor Vector posed to the class as they settled in.

"Miss Granger?" Vector repeated, pulling her out of her reverie. Hermione's cheeks colored.

"I- I'm sorry sir, I didn't hear the question," she muttered.

"Well perhaps someone else can tell us who discovered the magical properties of the number seven. Ah... Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy shrugged, making plain his disinterest.

"Please, sir," Hermione interrupted, raising her hand. "It was Bridget Wenlock, a member of Hufflepuff house and a famous Arithmancer."

Malfoy did a buck-toothed impression of Hermione raising her hand as Vector looked away to write the name on the blackboard. On impulse, Hermione turned and gave him a smug smile, flashing her teeth, which were no longer remotely overlarge since she had tricked Madame Pomfrey into shrinking them. For a second Malfoy looked nonplussed, and Hermione faced the front again with a small laugh, feeling surprised at herself.

It was going to be a long year.

* * *

_You're a Mudblood, Granger, so ten off for that._

Draco took his seat in Arithmancy five rows behind Granger, still riding high on the wave of power the Inquisitorial Squad badge on his chest afforded. The jibe he had made about Granger's blood status before docking her points rang happily through his mind, and he settled in for yet another hour of Vector's Mudblood worship feeling less irritable than usual.

Within the first five minutes of the lesson their stooge of a Professor had managed to praise Granger's work to the class at least eight times before setting them a particularly complex set of calculations to work on for the remainder of the class. Bored, Draco pretended to be scrawling numbers on his parchment, then flicked his wand to send the note flying over to Granger's desk while Vector's back was turned. He watched Granger's head tilt to the side when she saw the note, and her back stiffen when she read it, and smirked.

_I almost forgot. You're a know-it-all, Granger. Might have to dock a few more points._

He thought, at first, that she was not going to take the bait, and felt a disappointment quite disproportionate to the situation. More often than not she ignored his insults with an exasperating self-righteous restraint that caused him to roll his eyes. But she waved her wand arm discreetly and words appeared on the blank bit of parchment left on Draco's desk in her tidy, feminine handwriting. Damn the Mudblood's bizarre talent, he thought, squinting at the note.

_Try me._

Draco snorted, ignoring a scandalized look from Vector. After all, he was only taking this class at his mother's insistence. Without the presence of Scarhead and his Ginger pet in the classroom, the tenure of his arguments with Granger had changed gradually throughout the year. Where at first they had been as confrontational and full of venom as ever, slowly, inconspicuously, they had lost the tiniest amount of edge and become a subtle means of releasing tension without either party really knowing how it had happened. Draco absolutely did not care to examine his motives for participating in these battles of wits (all that mattered to him was that they maintain their unspoken agreement not to allude to them in any way outside of the class) but he sometimes thought that, for Granger, they must be a way of escaping the stress of dealing with an increasingly aggressive Potter and an oblivious-as-ever Weasley.

_If_ he thought of her at all, which was seldom. Never, in fact.

It wounded Draco's pride that he could not respond by the same magical means she had employed, so he settled for vanishing the words she had written and etching new ones onto the same piece of parchment with his wand, at least. This he sent sailing back to her desk with a sneer of self-satisfaction.

_Big talk, Granger, but parlour tricks won't win your points back. Did you learn that spell just so you could do Weasley's homework more efficiently? Pathetic._

_Too bad for you that, unlike Ron, your work is beyond help_, came the response.

Draco's eyes narrowed maliciously but before he could send back his answer he received a sharp prod to the side, and looked up to see that Pansy was elbowing him in the ribs.

"What are you doing, Draco?" she mouthed at him, pouting at the lack of attention he was paying her.

He sighed. Pansy was an ornamental sort of girlfriend: good for showing off, laughing at his clever and amusing remarks, and for soothing his ego when Potter bested him at Quidditch (as a result of the favoritism that always seemed to provide Potter with a superior broomstick and not based upon skill, of course), but an annoyance when he was not in the mood to indulge her.

He was not in the mood now. Unfortunately Pansy was not one to be brushed off so easily, and quick as a flash she snatched the piece of parchment away from Draco's desk, grinning in what she obviously thought to be a playful way. Draco panicked, but Granger, having noticed the scuffle in the back of the room, turned sharply to take in the scene. There was barely an instant that separated observation from understanding and horror in her eyes, and with a wave of her wand the parchment in Pansy's hand was wiped blank. Draco could have cursed Pansy, or himself, or Granger- or all three; why hadn't he thought to do that?

His eyes met Granger's for the space of a heartbeat and he saw his own disgruntlement mirrored in her expression. They had become, for a few seconds, complicit. It could never, ever be allowed to happen again. Draco ripped the parchment out of the confused Pansy's hand, crumpled it up, and threw it in his bag.

* * *

Draco managed to banish Granger from his thoughts entirely for the remainder of the year, especially after summer arrived, what with the rather more pressing matter of his father's imprisonment weighing on him. Then the verdict from the Dark Lord came, and his task was assigned, and he could think of little else besides the monumental task that lay ahead.

It was not as though he was not grateful, excited, eager to prove himself. For once Draco would be the one to best Potter and his worthless ilk. _He_ would be the one to win the glory and admiration of those around him. Still, in the dead of night, he often found himself waking from shifting, haunting nightmares, covered from head to toe in a cold sweat.

His mother walked around the Manor gaunt and worried these days, directionless since her husband's incarceration. She applied herself to distracting Draco from the troubles she imagined plagued him, which annoyed him to no end, as he would rather she left him alone to ponder the task that lay ahead for him. It was early one morning towards the end of the summer when Narcissa dragged him from his room to bring him to the Ministry and parade him around in front of _Daily Prophet_ reporters, insisting that they needed to put on a brave face.

He loitered in the waiting room outside Gawain Robards's office as his mother bore her disgrace with dignity and made a generous donation to the Auror Office, though for all the good it would do their family she might not have bothered. Growing bored, he decided to stretch his legs and entered the lift at the end of the hall with the vague idea of visiting the Office for Experimental Charms. He stopped, distracted, upon catching sight of a familiar face outside the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad offices. It was a curly-haired Hogwarts student one year ahead of him, a Ravenclaw, he thought. He could not remember her name at the moment, but was transfixed by the horrible assortment of boils and pimples that disfigured her face from ear to ear.

Draco repressed a chuckle when he saw that the boils spelled out the word _Sneak_. It felt wonderful to fall into the old habit of reveling in the misfortunes of others, rather than sinking into his own apprehension. A memory stirred, and he thought back to the day he and the old Umbridge bat had tracked down Potter and the rest of Dumbledore's Army. Hadn't Umbridge told him that she had been unable to wrest more information from her source due to the Mudblood Granger's interference?

He heard laughter, actual laughter, and it took Draco a moment to realize that it was coming from himself, that he was laughing at the thought of Granger casting such a powerful curse against the snitch that no Hogwarts Professors or Ministry agents so far had been able to reverse its effects. He had attempted a similar spell on Longbottom in third year, though the word _Moron_ had faded much too quickly. Unwillingly, Draco's thoughts wandered further to the way Granger had caught Rita Skeeter a year ago and trapped her in a glass jar. There was something about the Mudblood, some cold steel blade at the center of her character, which could cut her opponents deeply if challenged. Something far too close to grudging respect bubbled up inside him, and Draco squashed it.

He watched as the curly-haired snitch's mother led her into the Magical Reversal Office, then returned to the top floor to rejoin his mother, somewhat cheered for the first time in months.

That night Draco lay in bed for a long time, pondering the day's events. He did not know when his conscious thoughts slipped seamlessly into a dream, but suddenly, without explanation, he was aware that he was dreaming, and that he was not alone.

A girl sat in the shadowy corner of his bedroom, her face hidden, and Draco smirked to himself, relaxing back against his pillows in anticipation of what promised to be a very enjoyable dream. He had stopped having dreams of this kind since the Dark Lord had commanded him to dispose of the old man, and had rather missed the occasional nighttime distraction.

Then the girl moved into the light, and Draco recoiled, torn between shock and bemused admiration. She had on a tight-fitting, black dragonskin outfit more low cut than she ever would have worn in real life. Her eyes danced with a sultry light he had never seen before. Her hair was shiny and sleek, the same way it had been at the Yule Ball in fourth year.

"What are you doing here, Granger?" Draco croaked.

She did not speak, but continued to approach the foot of his bed swaying in a completely unacceptable way. Draco could not tear his eyes from her.

But after all, he reminded himself, if it was all a dream, what was the harm?

The moment he thought it a jagged leap in his consciousness brought him to stand directly in front of her at the end of his bed, so that he towered over her, breathing heavily. Granger's hand raked over his chest and then lower, lower, until Draco gulped, his heartbeat stuttering erratically.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated in one last, desperate effort to maintain his grip on reality.

Her answering grin smashed his resolve to bits. "Your dream, Draco. Why _am_ I here?"

But Draco could not answer, because she was doing things with her hand now, things that caused all coherent thought to fly out of his head. She kissed him slowly, with lips that burned his skin, moving to bite at his jaw, whispering against his neck. And then, much later, when she pushed him roughly onto his bed and looked up at him with mischief in her eyes, he was truly lost.

Draco awoke with a yell, panting, ashamed, and disbelieving. Ashamed, because his first conscious thought was _No, don't let it end_. Disbelieving because somewhere within his dream, an idea had been born. A plan.

He swung his legs off the bed and began to pace around his room, which did exactly nothing to alleviate his distress. The images from his dream were branded into his mind, impossible to erase.

"What the _fuck?_" he shouted, punching out at the wall and succeeding only in sending pain shooting through his hand.

Thoughts of Granger plagued him, and with them came thoughts of the curly-haired sneak from earlier that day. The sneak who had been branded for selling out Potter and his friends in the Room of Requirement.

_Why _am _I here, Draco?_

His plan was unfurling, growing. It seemed incredible that _this_ would be the way in which he would find a path to success, but Draco was willing to take it. The Room of Requirement would be the way to fulfill the Dark Lord's plan.

He returned to his bed and lay back against his pillows, hating himself for wishing, deep in the hidden recesses of his mind, for the dream to come back.

* * *

The very next time he saw Granger, at Madame Malkin's in Diagon Alley, Draco resolved to make her pay soundly for the dream that still haunted him.

"If you're wondering what the smell is, mother, a Mudblood just walked in," he said viciously, enjoying the fleeting look of hurt that passed over her face before she shut it down with indifference.

"No, don't, honestly, it's not worth it..." Granger muttered to Potter and Weasley, who, to Madame Malkin's alarm, had drawn their wands. It angered Draco that she always seemed to think herself better than him, was always rising above a fight.

"Yeah, like you'd dare do magic out of school," he jeered. "Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers."

Who_ had_ blacked her eye, he wondered vaguely? Surely her constant spats with Weasley could not have gone that far? Not even Weasley would be such a prat...

Merlin's sake, did it matter?

Under cover of Draco's reflections the argument had escalated to dangerous proportions.

"... Dumbledore won't always be around to protect you," his mother was saying.

Potter looked mockingly into every corner of the shop.

"Wow... look at that... he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!"

White hot fury spurred Draco forward, but to his mortification he tripped over his robes, eliciting obnoxious laughter from Weasley.

"Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!" Draco growled, feeling a savage desire to curse Potter, to hurt him for his ignorance. He knew not a _thing_ about their family.

"It's all right, Draco," said Narcissa, placing her hand on his shoulder. "I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius."

Potter raised his wand.

"Harry, no!" muttered Granger, pulling his arm down. "Think... you mustn't... you'll be in such trouble..."

Of course, she was thinking of Saintly Potter's all-important reputation. Draco's anger mounted still higher, against all reason. What had he expected? Some sort of covert support from the Mudblood? Their days of grudgingly pleasant conversation in fifth year Arithmancy were long gone. It was time to get a grip.

Madame Malkin bustled forward in a transparent effort to diffuse the tension and bent over his robes.

"I think this left sleeve could come up just a little bit more, dear, let me just-"

"Ouch!" he yelled, panicking. She had almost touched his mark! It was bad enough that the bloody thing burned and prickled day and night, leaving him in constant fear of being summoned to the Dark Lord's side... He pulled the robes over his head and made to leave, chastising the Malkin woman as snidely as he could.

Granger's eyes followed him all the way out of the shop, and he could have sworn he saw a little pity in them. Of all things, this he could not stand. He might have to drop Arithmancy altogether. Sighing, Draco resigned himself to the fact that this year at Hogwarts was going to be a long one.

* * *

Hermione watched Malfoy out of the corner of her eye all through their first potions lesson of the year, so much so that she became quite imprecise and her Draught of Living Death remained stubbornly purple long after it was supposed to have turned pale pink.

Ever since Harry had put forward his theory that Malfoy was a Death Eater, she had scorned the thought, assuring herself that it could not be true for countless reasons: his age, his lack of qualifications, the fact that it seemed impossible that a boy she had known since childhood, even one as hateful as Malfoy, could have joined to ranks of a group of hardened murderers. Yet she was observant; more so, truth be told, than Harry was, and certainly much more than Ron. And it had not escaped her notice that Malfoy obviously wanted to win Slughorn's bottle of Felix Felicis very badly. Hermione wondered what on Earth a spoiled prat like him could want with Felix Felicis. Surely he did not need it to improve his grades, which seemed of so little interest to him, or to make friends, as he seemed to have no shortage of admirers in Slytherin house. And even Malfoy would not be stupid enough to attempt to use a banned substance during a Quidditch game when it was so likely he would be caught. Could he want it for some romantic purpose?

No, she decided, that made no sense either, what with Pansy Parkinson fawning over him all over the school.

Hermione had no personal interest in Malfoy's relationship with Parkinson or anyone else, of course. Being called a Mudblood on a regular basis was certainly not an inducement to any kind of friendship. Even the year before, when she and Malfoy had engaged in an odd sort of truce restricted to the confines of their Arithmancy class, her dislike had softened only by an infinitesimal margin. She merely wanted to remain alert to possible threats. After all, Harry's instincts were often eerily correct.

Arithmancy followed Potions after lunch, and Hermione arrived slightly later than usual due to her various preoccupations. As a result she was forced to sit in the back row by Malfoy, the very last place she wanted to be.

"I suppose you're really pleased with yourself, are you?" he hissed as soon as she sat down, speaking in a low voice so as not to be heard by Professor Vector, who had just started lecturing.

"Beg pardon?" Hermione questioned, doing her best to sound haughty and unconcerned.

"Helped Potter cheat his way to being Slughorn's pet, did you?" he drawled, sneering in spite of the obvious anger in his voice. "How does Weasel King feel about you fawning over the Chosen One? Or don't they mind _sharing_-"

"Oh, be quiet," Hermione snapped, furious that she had once again let him get to her. But somehow, even in her anger, she felt a small strain of pride at the thought that Malfoy had automatically assumed that she must have been involved in the brewing of a successful potion. "You're upset because Snape doesn't teach Potions anymore and you'll have to actually earn your grades on merit now. Well, that's your misfortune."

Malfoy's eyes darkened for a moment, and Hermione felt thrown off balance.

"We'll see which way the fortunes turn in the end," he muttered, almost too low to hear.

Uncertainty danced through Hermione's head; could it be, _could_ Harry be right? She stared at the blackboard without really seeing Professor Vector's notes, probing her own feelings. Surely not... and yet...

Looking around abruptly, Hermione surprised Malfoy in the middle of staring at her. His gaze was unguarded, empty of the disdain so customary to him, and she felt, as she had the night of the Yule Ball when she had inadvertently spied on him and Pansy, that he looked actually human for once.

Then it was gone. His eyebrows went up when he saw her turning back towards him, and his face fell back into the old contemptuous lines. But there was no mistaking what had been.

No, Hermione decided, she could not believe that Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater.

* * *

Felix Felicis was coursing through her veins, and Hermione felt exhilarated and frightened in equal measure. Confusion and noise and flashing lights danced all around her, and she was petrified that one of the Death Eaters' curses would hit Ginny, or Neville, or Luna. Or Ron. _Please no, please not him, not Ron..._ She was only glad that Harry and Dumbledore were gone from the school, searching for Horcruxes. The Death Eaters would have gone right for him.

She ducked a killing curse fired off by a huge blond wizard and almost tripped over the feet of someone lying in a pile of rubble. A closer look showed Hermione that it was Luna, but the latter was already standing again with her wand at the ready, and Hermione continued her pursuit of the blond man who was causing so much trouble. Pieces of stone from the wall the Death Eaters had blasted apart were still flying through the air, and she coughed a little as she inhaled large quantities of dust.

At the foot of the stairs she was distracted by the appearance of a new opponent, and for a moment surprise rooted her to the spot: it was Malfoy, his appearance wild and his hair disheveled. He did not seem to notice her right away, but was looking over his shoulder and clutching his wand so hard his knuckles had turned white. When, at last, their eyes met, Malfoy's face went whiter than ever and Hermione raised her wand, ready to defend herself. But he made to move to curse her. Instead he ran forward, giving her a wide berth, and attempted to get at the staircase.

"_Stupefy!_" Hermione cried, missing him by mere inches as he ducked. Malfoy swore and sent a stunner back at her, which she avoided with some help from Felix.

A resounding crash rumbled overhead and both Hermione and Malfoy threw themselves onto the ground with their arms over their heads to avoid being crushed by a renewed cascade of falling rubble. To Hermione's dismay her wand was knocked out of her hand and fell to the floor a few feet away. She raised her head to see Malfoy laying flat on his stomach across the corridor, staring right back at her with conflict in his face. He still had his wand.

Hermione lurched forward, crawling on her hands and knees, but already Malfoy was on his feet looking down at her with his wand raised. He went right on looking at her, by all indications finding her as distasteful as ever, but did not cast a curse. She could not understand what he was waiting for.

_Do it! Do it! DO IT!_ Malfoy's mind was screaming at him. He was off to go kill one old fool, what was to stop him from getting his start now? He could easily kill the Mudblood, or at the very least hit her with a good curse, to send a message to her friends. But he did not want to.

Well, he had more important matters to attend to, didn't he? And her eyes were pleading and curious and fearful all at once. The voice in his head urging him to raise his wand against her was muffled and weak. It seemed that he and Granger were outside of time, and he felt both powerful, standing over her, and powerless against his own indecision.

The choice was taken from him, in any case, when, having crawled forward, Granger managed to snatch up her wand. The moment was broken and Draco turned to run, ducking to avoid providing her with an easy target. But no jet of light passed him, and glancing back he saw Granger looking so taken aback that for a moment it appeared she could not cast a spell.

Screams echoed through the corridor, heralding approaching reinforcements or enemies, or both, and Granger came to herself. She sent another stunner after him, but Draco was too far away now, and dodged it easily. They exchanged one final look-for the last time as children rather than warriors-before he passed through the invisible barrier at the foot of the stairs and disappeared into the darkness.


End file.
